Amalgam
by FireHeart Alchemist
Summary: Things aren't looking up for Dexter. After murdering his own brother, some very dangerous evidence resurfaces. Miami PD are no longer the only ones on the case. AU warnings, crude language, references to violence, and massive crossovers.
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer:_**_ I do not own Dexter, Inception, or any other material that is identifiable as belonging to another author, producer, director, etc. I don't even own the original plot bunny! This was inspired by some of _inklou_'s work on deviantART._

_**Summary:** Things aren't looking up for Dexter. After murdering his own brother, some very dangerous evidence is being dragged up. Miami Metro are no longer the only ones on the case: the government is pulling together all of the finest in order to catch this 'Bay Harbour Butcher'. Serious AU warnings, crude language, references to violence, and awesomeness that some may find disturbing. Reader discretion is bull! :)  
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**Amaglam**

Prologue**  
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There's nothing quite like Miami in the summertime. No tourists, no serial killers.

_Click. Click._

And apparently, no air conditioner.

_Click. Click._

_Thunk!_

I sigh. This would be annoying. I usually don't mind being a few days without the A/C while I fix it myself, but this summer was turning out to be one of the worst the city had ever seen. My polyester bowling shirt, usually only a little bit damp around the back and armpits, was soaked through with perspiration. It was hot. Way to hot and muggy. I was starting to feel trapped by the heat. Crushed really.

The moon started singing in my veins. I felt my heart jump a bit. This was too early! Too soon after my last kill!

_Click. Click! Click click click!_

_Wham!_

And with this damned air conditioner broken, I would have to stick around while I wait for a repair man to come by. Not to mention I'd have to find a new hiding place for my slides. Not able to stay in my apartment any longer, I opened the door to the balcony. There was a sudden breeze and I felt instantly relieved.

Looking outside, I wasn't all that surprised to find it almost abandoned by the human race. Of course, anyone with enough sense and a functioning A/C unit would spend today indoor, just like they had yesterday.

It was a bit odd though. Yesterday, the pool had been full of young people and children, those who couldn't stand being cooped indoors but didn't want to die of heat stroke either. Today, there was a young couple in the pool, possibly university students, and three other men sitting around it. One of them was an Indian man, by the looks of it, fanning himself with some paperwork of his, briefcase at his side. Beside the two remaining men were talking to each other casually.

One of these men, the one with ear-length blonde hair, seemed to notice me and waved, smiling just enough to be polite. I waved my hand in return. After all, there's no point in being rude and having people questioning my cover. Especially not now...

"Hey!" I jerked back to reality with a start. The blonde guy had left the pool and was now at the bottom of the stairs. Seeing that he had my attention, he continued talking. "Do you have something to drink? My friend over there," he gestured to the Indian man, who looked decidedly far too hot in this weather. "Anyway, I don't want him overheating, and I was wondering if you had something he could drink?"

Fuck my life. I just want one quiet afternoon with just me and some criminal files...

"Sure. Let me see what's cold in the fridge." The man said a small 'thanks' and followed me up to my door, before he stopped politely. At least he has some manners. Opening the fridge, I took one of Deb's water bottles and tossed it to the man. "Do you want anything?"

"Do you happen to have a beer, perhaps?" He grinned almost shyly at this request. I just wanted to roll my eyes. But, darkly dreaming Dexter needed to keep the mask up.

"Is Heineken good for you?" He nodded yes and I pulled two bottles out of the fridge.

"This is some heat wave, huh?" Oh great. Small talk about the weather. My favourite. I really wish he would leave.

"Yeah, it's killer alright. Just in time for my A/C to break down." Where the hell did that come from? I close the fridge door, the Barbie head _tick_ing against the door. A sense of unease coils in my stomach. I am frozen in place, staring at the head with my back to him.

"Oh, do you need help fixing that? I used to be a repairman..." I tune him out and flick Barbie a few more times. _Tick. Tick._ What the hell? The man starts moving to the A/C unit on the wall when I finally register what he just said.

"Nah, it's okay. I've got someone coming later to fix it." He turns for a bit and pauses, but he doesn't move away from the unit.

"It's alright. It should only take a few seconds..."

"Why don't you give your friend the water first and finish your beer, okay? I'm sure he's dying in this heat." Something is seriously wrong here, something is off.

He nods his head in thanks as he moves towards the door. He calls out to his friend and lobs the water bottle from the balcony. I hear someone cry out and guess it's hit him on the head or something. I hear laughter...wait. I _feel_ their laughter. I know and sense their emotions. The pieces all fall together now.

I make sure he is not aware of this revelation. He turns, all smiles and innocence. I open a drawer and make to get a beer bottle opener.

"So, about the..." He doesn't get a chance to finish his sentences. He has a steak knife handle-deep in his neck, but it wasn't me who attacked him. It's the _other_ me. My Dark Passenger.

The world begins to explode and before I know it, I'm awake in my apartment. The air is disturbed, like someone else has been here. I check my wrist and see small puncture marks in my skin.

I launch myself from my bed and make for the fridge. Barbie is still there, charming as ever. I playfully swat her head. It thumps against the stainless steel of the door.

_Thack._

Someone was here. In my apartment. In my head. God help them if I find out who is was.


	2. Chapter 2

**_So just to avoid confusion, this is a massive Crossover. It will primarily be Dexter, crossed over with Inception, Sherlock, Criminal Minds, House, and Bones among others. Trust me, it'll all work out. I've got this plot web going on that has everything planned out, but it's so complicated to look at I actually made someone cry when I told them it was homework._**

**_In short; yes, this chapter is Sherlock-based and yes, it is the right document for this chapter. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 2: ****London Bridge**

It takes a bit of snaking about through the police tape, but soon enough, we weasel our way to the very heart of the crime scene. My associate's eyes are never still, taking in the entire scene, it seems, in seconds.

"Over here Holmes, Doctor Watson." Detective Inspector Lestrade calls us overto him. At his feet are a team of forensics (lead by none other than Anderson, of course) around what looked to be a sort of plastic body bag.

"What is it, Inspector? Someone forgot to pick up their dry cleaning?" How Sherlock manages to be so nonchalant, even giddy, at the scene of murder is beyond me. Then again, he's the self-proclaimed 'high-functioning sociopath', and I'm the relatively sane army doctor that keeps tailing along anyway. Who's really the barmy one here is what I'd like to know.

The crime scene is on the banks of the Thames, the water being low enough for none of us to worry about getting wet. It has been a very dry summer, after all. On the bank there's the body bag, with an obvious enough body within. The camera flashes and the bag shines like oil, though the stench is far worse.

Sherlock walks up to the corpse with long, determined strides, a smile tweaking his lips. Most of the forensics unit back off, save Anderson. He looks about to protest, but his protests are cut short with one intense glare from Lestrade. The head of Forensics shuffles aside, mood blackening like the London skies.

The world's only consulting detective swoops down on the corpse like some sort of demented carrion bird, long-coat flaring dramatically. Gloved hands ghost over her, occasionally poking and prodding, miniature magnifying glass making its usual appearance. He feels her neck, prods the stab wound, and all but rips open the body bag.

Lestrade moves forward to stop him when Sherlock victoriously pulls out a waterlogged postcard from the bag. Upon further inspection, it is a postcard from Miami, Florida with the photograph of a white man with glazed eyes and a shaggy haircut. The photo and postcard are taken as evidence, but Sherlock has no doubt by now memorized every detail of it. The ink, sadly, is smudged beyond all recognition, save what looks to be the name _'Leila'_ and _'Soho'_.

"Well?" Lestreade shifted his weight from one foot to the other expectantly. Sherlock's eyes were bright with excitement as he launched into one of his now-notorious deductive monologues.

"The victim is single, just gotten out of a relationship, and not a particularly nice one if I say so, judging by the size and age of the bruises on her upper arms. A few minor burn marks in irregular patterns indicate that she probably set fire to their flat, or something of that ilk. Her size indicates that she is or recently was a junkie of sorts, and thus prone to addictive behaviours. Probably not the first flat that got burnt.

"She's only just returned to London, as she does have a slight tan line indicating she wore very thin-strapped tops outside fairly often. Due to the postcard, my guess is Miami, though that it worth further investigation.

"Now for the actual murder, it was all very clean and precise. This was done by someone who knew what it was they were doing. The angle of entry is exactly perpendicular to her chest, with a single-sided hunting blade by the looks of it. Notice how one end of the wound is cleaner than the other: the upper part, meaning that they were holding the knife in such a way that they must have been at her head. She was lying down when she was stabbed.

"Here's the interesting part; there's absolutely no sight of a struggle whatsoever. Even if she had been asleep, she would have at least struggled a bit. As the wound bled out quite a bit, she wasn't smothered and then stabbed, and there is a puncture wound on the side of her neck that supports that she was injected with a paralytic, if not a sedative before she was stabbed.

"Traces of blood inside the bag conclude that she must have been drugged, placed within the body bag, and then stabbed before taking a little swim. The killer was very neat, very efficient, and very well prepared. I doubt you'll be able to find much evidence of him on the body."

"Him? What makes you think that the killer was male?" Even Lestrade rolled his eyes at Anderson's comment.

"Because, Anderson, when women kill it is usually out of passion and/or vengeance. This was very meticulously planned and very emotionlessly carried out. Also, judging by the angle of the puncture wound in her neck, the attacker was a fair bit taller than her, probably around six feet tall. If I may continue?" Anderson huffed and continued documenting evidence.

"The postcard indicates that the killer must have known the victim, or at least had enough interest in her to follow her back to London all the way from Miami. She must have known the person in the photograph. He probably sent the postcard locally, judging by the bits of postage that remain intact. He may even have been the one to put it in the mail.

"He would have stalked her to her flat, waited until the post was delivered for his opportunity to strike. He likely broke into her room and planted all of the necessary equipment, such as the body bag, while she was out. As she checks the post and sees the postcard, she would have been so distracted as to not hear him sneak up behind her and inject her with the paralytic. She more than likely had hurt or killed the man in the photo if she had such a reaction.

"He would have dragged her in, placed her in the body bag, and then stabbed her. He would have only braved such an attack in a less favourable part of town, one with little to no security, which would be ideal for her if she were sneaking back into the country escaping the law, which is consistent with Soho." Ever faithful, Lestrade is writing all of this down as fast as Sherlock is able to spew it out.

"We'll put out some feelers in the area, see if anyone knows this woman or saw what happened, and we'll send a word out to Miami if we can. We'll run this blokes' face throughout database to see what comes up."

"Look up arsons in the area for the past three or so years too, Inspector," Sherlock adds, readjusting his scarf regally. "See if any of the property owners or inhabitants has the first name Leila. You might find one of them had suddenly run off a short while later.

"Come along John," he says, turning abruptly. "Let the Yard have their fun now. I think my saliva samples have had enough time to congeal by now." With a long suffering sigh, I follow, God knows why.


End file.
